


The Other Brother

by Joules Mer (joulesmer)



Series: Nostos [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-01 19:58:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5218889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joulesmer/pseuds/Joules%20Mer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>What if you underestimated Mycroft?  What if you realised how important he is, but not <i>who</i> he is?”  Sherlock looked at his brother intently and Sherrinford bared his teeth in something that passed for a smile as he continued, “What if you thought you could get something on him?”</i><br/> <br/>Someone put John in a bonfire, there is blackmail across the highest tiers of the British Government, and sometimes even the great Sherlock Holmes has to ask for help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Stalker

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hamstermoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hamstermoon/gifts).



London had been suffocating in fog for three days. Even now, at eight o’clock in the morning it may as well have been twilight. John perched on the edge of Sherlock’s bed, now their bed, and absently pulled on a sock as he thought. The regularity with which Mycroft appeared in their flat was increasing. Or perhaps, it was the same as before, only Mycroft was now more prone to visiting when John was home. Thinking back, he could remember many times when he'd returned from the shops to find a lingering of expensive aftershave and Sherlock in a snit.

Socks finally on, John hauled himself up, muscles still stiff from the ordeal with the bonfire. He’d intended to have a lie-in, but Sherlock had slipped out of the bed around half seven. Perhaps Lestrade had come by to question them again. _Boring_ rang in his head in Sherlock’s voice. John couldn’t remember anything from after the needle was sunk into his neck, and the Holmes brothers had so far turned up a blank on the CCTV footage and text messages.

The BBC was prattling on about flights grounded at Heathrow when John emerged from the bedroom to find Mycroft ensconced in his chair. There was a photo of the top floors of the HSBC tower on the telly, looking like it was perched on a cloud. Mycroft had a cup of tea in hand already. Sherlock had been significantly more civil since his return, the sniping between them more like sport compared to their previous venom. The conversation between the brothers was low, Sherlock leaning into the space between the chairs in a graceful arc. Perhaps the television had been turned to provide a measure of cover.

“Morning, Mycroft.” The room was dimmer than a normal morning, the usual light from the window muted by the fog. John stopped on his way to the kitchen to collect a cup of tea, “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Mycroft smiled a tight, not entirely disingenuous smile. “A social call, John.”

“Oh.” John didn’t buy it for the minute, especially not with the affected nonchalance on Sherlock’s face. He’d seen that exact look directed at Lestrade shortly after Sherlock pick-pocketed yet another ID badge. Rather than push the issue, John settled for making himself a cup of tea and then pointedly relocating to the sofa with his laptop.

The brothers stared at each other in some sort of silent impasse. Good, thought John. They’d have to get used to being a bit more open about things. Finally, Sherlock said, “Mycroft came to see how you were after the bonfire.”

John was singularly unimpressed with that attempt. “He saw me yesterday.” The memory of being accosted outside Tesco and being taken for a walk was still slightly bewildering. 

Sherlock’s jaw twitched in a way that Mycroft was clearly able to decipher as he inclined his head ever so slightly in response and Sherlock said, “And to make some suggestions about lines of inquiry regarding the bonfire.”

John’s nostrils flared, but his voice remained even as he said, “Considering that I was the one _in_ the bonfire I’d like to be included in that discussion.”

Mycroft spoke up at that, “It was a suggestion of a somewhat personal nature, John. I’m sorry, but I was more comfortable discussing with Sherlock first.”

Oh. This was a new one. Mycroft doing something of a ‘personal nature’? John didn’t think _Mr. Queen and Country_ had a personal life at all. Unhappy, but in equal measures both mollified and curious, John said, “And are we acting on this suggestion?” He looked between the two of them expectantly, but Sherlock didn’t take his eyes off his brother.

“I’ll think about it.” Sherlock’s fingers were steepled under his chin, gaze inscrutable as ever.

Before John could probe further the doorbell rang. A full second, firm pressure, and Sherlock’s eyes lit up in response. They had a client. Mycroft took that as his cue, finished his tea and was halfway to the door when it swung open. 

John looked up and almost dropped his mug. James Sholto. The man hovered on the doorstep as if unsure of his welcome, even as Mrs. Hudson made a move to usher him into the flat.

John’s mug clattered as he tried to set it down and clamber to his feet at the same time. “Sir!”

Sholto smiled then, warmly, and stepped over the threshold, “It isn’t ‘sir’ anymore, John. Not for a long time.” His voice sounded slightly hoarse, almost disused.

Shaking his head as he navigated around the coffee table, John smiled back. “It still is to me.” The handshake between them was firm and warm; what John could only describe as a soldier’s understanding passing between them.

Looking further into the flat, Sholto kept his features schooled at the eclectic decor, only frowning slightly when he caught sight of Mycroft standing with his umbrella. “I know you, don’t I?” He entered further, taking two, three steps towards the middle of the room. “I protected you once...”

Mycroft raised his chin slightly and Sherlock could tell he was deciding whether to deny or confirm. Eventually, he said softly, “Qui audet adipiscitur.”

Sholto’s gaze flickered between Sherlock and John, then back to Mycroft as he said, “Yes, then, but recently…” He trailed off rather than continuing the thought and Mycroft didn’t so much as twitch. Instead, he waved his good hand to indicate the room and, with a trace of embarrassment plain in his voice, said, “I can see I’ve come to the right place.”

With a tight smile, Mycroft hooked his umbrella over his arm and said, “I’ll be off then.” Without waiting for a reply he took Mrs. Hudson by the elbow and ushered her back downstairs, the door of the flat closing behind them.

Forgetting himself for a moment, John couldn’t help but ask, “How do you know Mycroft?”

Sherlock interrupted the potential foray into the top secret. “Sometimes even Mycroft has to venture into the field to see something for himself.” He settled back into his chair from where he had been perched on the edge. “Now, Major, how can we help? Please,” he indicated the chair his brother had just vacated, “perhaps John could get you a cup of tea?”

“I’m fine, but thank you.” The ex-officer moved to sit, and Sherlock waited with uncharacteristic patience.

John dragged the desk chair around to where he had a good view of both the other men’s faces as Sherlock cocked his head to one side and said, “Now start at the beginning. I don’t think I need to tell you to not be boring.”

Sholto nodded as if he understood, and perhaps he did. He only took a moment to gather his thoughts. “I’m concerned about my godson, Stephen. He’s a private in the Household Guards and I got an unsettling letter from him last week. He believes he’s being stalked.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked around Sholto’s face, over the scars and looking more deeply into the expressions underneath as he asked, “Stalked how?”

“On duty, funnily enough. He said there’s a man who watches him, always with a hood up and often a camera obscuring his face. It’s strange enough, John, that I thought perhaps you could help.” He clenched his good hand momentarily into a fist. “I certainly can’t.”

As John was trying to come up with something appropriately reassuring to say, Sherlock broke in with, “That’s not all.”

A flicker of something crossed the ex-officer’s face, so brief John would have missed it if he hadn’t known the man. What Sherlock had picked up on was a mystery. Sholto merely raised an eyebrow. “No?”

“No.” Sherlock snatched up the remote and stabbed a button to finally turn off the telly as he said,” You’re being threatened.”

There was a tension in the room now, the air almost brittle as Sholto replied, “I’ve been threatened ever since the incident in Afghanistan.”

“Blackmailed then. And it’s something different this time.” Sholto didn’t immediately answer and Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, “Isn’t it?”

Sholto gave a mirthless chuckle and and the tension vanished as abruptly as it had settled. He looked to John and said, “He’s good.”

Something clenched slightly in John’s chest. “The best.”

A silent standoff stretched for several long seconds, then Sholto took a deep breath and said, “I am being blackmailed, with something no one else should know about.”

“Blackmail is always about something no one else should know about.” Sherlock retorted quickly, “That’s why it’s blackmail.”

“No.” Sholto shook his head emphatically, “something _no one_ should know about.” Ah, top secret, then. “They may be trying to lure me out with Stephen as well, or it’s unrelated to the stalker, or maybe the boy is just nervous and imagining things.”

“This, blackmail…”

“Something from Afghanistan.” Sholto inclined his head slightly in deference to his scars and useless arm and amended, “something _else_ from Afghanistan.”

“And what do they want?” Seeing Sholto falter at that Sherlock huffed impatiently, “You’ve just met my brother, Major, what did they want?”

Top secret was still top secret, even to the brother of Mycroft Holmes. “Information,” Sholto said eventually, “Information that would be of sincere embarrassment to senior politicians and top individuals at the MOD, and even have the potential to incite terrorist acts against our country.”

Possibilities blossomed in Sherlock’s mind on all sorts of branches. “Which politicians?”

“Those less shrewd than your brother, to be sure.” Sholto rubbed at his ruined arm with his good hand for a moment, then said, “I’m not going to tell you what it is, Mr. Holmes. I’m not going to tell _anyone_ what it is and I think whoever is blackmailing me only has the vaguest notion themself, but I need to know if Stephen is being targeted by the same individuals. I don’t care about myself, but Stephen can’t be hurt.”

“Tell us more about Stephen.” John’s tone was soft: encouraging and reassuring all at once as he repeated, “Tell us more about Stephen, Major, and we’ll do what we can.”

“Thank you, John. Where to start…”

Even Sherlock could sound patient when he wanted to, although his eyes continued to flit and deduce. “Start at the beginning.”

“Stephen Bainbridge is my godson. He’s 18 years old and in the Household Guard. I served with his father, years ago, when we were both recruits. Probably saved his life on a training mission back then - funny how things come full circle, isn’t it? He died ten years ago, but I maintained a connection with Stevie. Even with the business in Afghanistan we remained close-- his mother, too. Laura always made sure I knew she supported me. We write letters to one another, always with a fake name so no one can track me down. In his last letter he finally confessed that he thinks he’s being stalked.” He pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it over, “It’s all right here.”

Blackmail. Sentiment. A secret godson. Sherlock read the letter and tuned out the soft conversation that had started once he’d retreated into his mind palace. There were too many threads and loose ends. _John in a bonfire_. It didn’t work. How could he focus on someone else’s case when _they had put John in a bonfire_. Sherlock’s eyes snapped back open and the hum of conversation in the room abruptly stopped. He blinked several times to anchor himself back in the room, then addressed the other men. “We’ll make inquiries, about Stephen… and the other thing.”

Sholto smiled, slightly twisted by the scars across one side of his face. His voice was gruff with a real emotion Sherlock couldn’t quite parse. “Thank you. Thank you both.” He hurriedly took his leave after that, despite John’s protests that he was welcome to stay.

They’d left Baker Street soon after as well. Sherlock’s ability to conjure black cabs from the air was undiminished by his time abroad and they soon found Private Bainbridge on duty. A handsome young man, thought John, wearing the uniform proudly even as tourist after tourist posed with him for photos. 

They loitered some distance back, clutching rapidly cooling Costa coffees. Sure enough, a slightly scruffy man appeared, hood up to cover most of his face. As they watched, the man took up a position next to a tree and proceeded to spend the next half hour staring directly at Bainbridge. It was, John admitted, unnerving just watching it take place. When the purported stalker finally appeared ready to move on Sherlock gave a snort of disgust.

John frowned, “What?”

Sherlock snorted again and rolled his eyes. “Uniform fetishist.” He waved a hand at the man. “Look at his gait.” John peered. Oh. “Come along, John, I think he could do with a stern talking to from Captain Watson, wouldn’t you agree?”

John discarded the empty coffee cup in a bin and rubbed his hands together. “Oh, with pleasure.”

If only all cases were that easy to resolve. Stephen Bainbridge wasn’t going to have any trouble from his stalker in the future, that much was for sure. God, thought, John, it sure got the blood pumping to get to effectively pull rank, even if on a cowed civilian. 

Sherlock had retreated into his mind palace after their takeaway dinner and John assumed he was mulling over the bonfire or Sholto’s blackmail. What tomorrow would bring on either front John couldn’t say, but for that night he allowed himself to savour at least a small victory.


	2. The Other Brother

It was taking Sherlock longer than usual to get dressed.

John wouldn’t have noticed, except that he’d put the kettle on when he heard the water shut off in the bathroom, which usually meant about four minutes until Sherlock made an appearance. The man had applying product to his hair and slipping into a suit down to a science.

When the tea was threatening to be over-steeped and Sherlock shad yet to appear John pulled out the teabags, poured his own and wandered back into the front room. Ten minutes, and counting.

After twelve minutes John was considering forming a search party. Finally, the bedroom door opened with a creak and Sherlock ambled into the kitchen, pouring his now cool tea.

Sensing he was being ignored, John broke the silence. “Sorry, thought you’d be out sooner.” Sherlock grunted something indistinct and clattered around in the kitchen for a while before eventually emerging with his mug and a piece of toast. He was wearing his better trousers, favourite dress shirt and a well cut jacket-- the one that fit him while he still had a pound or two to gain since coming back. There was a distinctly distracted air about him as well. Curiouser and curiouser, thought John. Sherlock flitted around the room, taking a bite of his toast, then putting it down, then running a hand over the skull almost affectionately. Another sip of tea and then he was at the window, peering into the weak November sunlight.

Finally, John couldn’t stand it anymore and asked, “Where are you going?”

“I’m going to visit my brother.” Spoken in the usual long-suffering yet bored tone he typically affected when speaking about his brother, yet something was still off.

“Since when did you take so long getting ready to see Mycroft?”

Sherlock made a scoffing noise deep in his throat and as if it was the most normal thing in the world said, “My other brother.”

John’s tea sloshed over the rim of his mug as his hand faltered. “Hang on, what?”

Sherlock only now seemed to take real notice of John, eyes unreadable with his back to the windows and a shower of crumbs falling to the carpet from his toast. He at least swallowed before he spoke. “My other brother.”

“You have another brother?” John felt like he’d been taking a staircase and missed a step. “Other than Mycroft.”

Sherlock nodded.

“Do you have any more siblings?” He bit back ‘ _that I should be aware of’_ , because evidently this other brother wasn't something Sherlock thought he should know about.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and took another bite of toast. Not bothering to swallow first this time, he said, “Of course not.”

“So.” John set his tea safely down on the table and frowned at the damp spot on the knee of his jeans. “Why haven't I met him? Mycroft comes traipsing around here often enough.”

The put-upon sigh was laid on just a little too richly. “Because he's not a high functioning sociopath.”

“You mean he's…”

Before John could get out the word ‘normal’, Sherlock nodded and said, “just a sociopath.”

Oh. Not what he’d expected then. John wasn’t sure where to start on this one, and trying to tamp down a rapidly growing sense of hurt that this particular detail had been omitted for years. At the beginning then, was where to start. “What’s his name?”

“Sherrinford.”

Sherrinford. Naturally. “And he’s older, younger, middle…?”

“The eldest.” Sherlock finally settled into his own chair and balanced his plate on the armrest. “Mycroft is the middle.”

Mycroft a middle child. Good lord, thought John, that explained some of it. “And he lives…”

“Gloucestershire.” As if on command they heard the sound of a car pulling up outside, “It’s a two hour drive. I take it you want to come along?”

The look John gave him was answer enough. 

It was clearly one of Mycroft’s cars idling at the kerb and John made the connection. “Was this the suggestion Mycroft came to speak with you about yesterday?”

Sherlock nodded and held the door open to encourage John to slide over and take the seat behind the driver. “He thinks Sherrinford may be able to help if we make the appropriate social entreaty. And this blackmail of Sholto’s is bound to interest him as well.”

John waited until the door slammed and the car pulled away to ask, “Just where in Gloucestershire are we going?”

“GCHQ.”

“I knew it.” He shook his head, “I bloody well knew it. And Sherrinford?”

“If Mycroft is the British Government, Sherrinford is the signals intelligence service.”

“Jesus, Sherlock.” John scrubbed a hand over his face. “Is there anything you Holmeses don’t control?”

“Well, they did try to recruit me as well, but I declined.” Sherlock’s fingers drummed on the seat cushion between them. “Boring.” Lip curled in an expression of distaste. “Responsibility.”

“And why haven’t I met him before?”

“Mycroft doesn’t trust him.” Sherlock said it as if it was the most obvious and natural conclusion. “They have a deal: he keeps a low profile in Cheltenham and gets all-access to information and a team of bright young things to work for him.”

“That you’re going to need to explain.”

Long fingers splayed out on the leather seat and Sherlock seemed to take a second to decide how to explain. “Sherrinford doesn’t care about Queen and country, John. He cares about the best toys, the best codes, computers, puzzles to unravel… and England may not always be able to offer him that. Imagine what the Russians or Chinese, or even the Americans would court him with. He’s not as brilliant as Mycroft, but just as deadly and without my charming brother’s even tenuous principles.”

John took a long moment to think that over. Eventually, he said, “You just called Mycroft brilliant.”

Sherlock snorted, appreciating in that moment that he might have just been forgiven for the monumental omission.

John’s hand came down over top of Sherlock’s and he twined their fingers together. “Tell me more about him. Were you close?”

“Sociopath, remember.” Sherlock flipped their hands to rub his thumb over John’s index finger. “He’s ten years older than Mycroft, actually, so I didn’t know him growing up. I don’t think Mycroft really did either, to be honest, they’d noticed he was a bit… odd… and sent him to boarding school.” 

It was clear Sherlock wanted to spend time thinking, so John swallowed his further questions and forced himself to look out the window instead. Finally, the car pulled up in front of the famous Doughnut. John was about to open the door when Sherlock reached out and stilled his hand. The detective gripped John’s shoulder and held his gaze, “Never, ever, make the mistake of thinking that he cares. Mycroft did once when he was twelve, and he never did that again.”


	3. Sherrinford

In appearance, Sherrinford was the third brother in every respect: middle in height, slim, obviously significantly older than Sherlock and Mycroft, but with none of the hallmarks of middle age that were starting to appear in Mycroft. He still had all his hair, but it was tamer than Sherlock’s, whether by nature or design John couldn’t tell.

They had been ushered into a reception room-- very modern with glass tables and bare grey walls. Utilitarian to be sure, but a certain aesthetic choice in its own right. The way Sherrinford strode into the room was an echo of Sherlock on a case.

The voice was pure Holmes as well, deep and cultured tones that commanded respect even as he said, “Ah, baby brother.” Sherrinford took Sherlock’s hand in a firm shake, “Last I heard was a pattern of chatter and panicked squeals into the void as you took out Moriarty’s network one by one. Very neat work.” It was a calculated opening, intended to cut, to disarm, to put Sherlock in his place and remind him of things best forgotten.

John suddenly found himself pieced by a blue-grey gaze and his hand firmly taken as well. “And Doctor Watson, the pleasure is all mine.” The eldest Holmes folded his tall frame into a chair and gestured for Sherlock and John to join him. “Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit? And don’t try to tell me you just felt like dropping in on your brother.”

Sherlock and John exchanged a glance. _John_. Sherlock reminded himself. _You’re doing this for John._ He could have started with flattery, or by explaining. Instead, he tried a third option and simply said, “Please, Sherrinford.”

It was clearly not what his brother had expected. John had spent enough time around Holmeses to catch the surprise that briefly flashed across Sherrinford’s face. Sitting back and quickly schooling his features, the eldest brother said, “Because you asked nicely: someone is collecting politicians.”

Ignoring the jibe, Sherlock steepled his fingers in preparation of thinking quickly. “Collecting how?”

Sherrinford mirrored the gesture and answered with a question: “What if you underestimated Mycroft? What if you realised how important he is, but not _who_ he is?” Sherlock looked at his brother intently and Sherrinford bared his teeth in something that passed for a smile as he continued, “What if you thought you could get something on him?”

Carefully, Sherlock said, “If I were the right kind of person, it would be worth trying.”

“Exactly: the right kind of person…”

The answer came from Sherlock with a sharp intake of breath: “The Napoleon of blackmail.”

The same bared-teeth smile as before. “Now you comprehend.”

As an aside to John, Sherlock explained, “Charles Augustus Magnussen.”

Magnussen? It took John a moment to place the name. “The newspaperman?”

Ignoring John entirely, Sherrinford fixed his brother with his vaguely unnerving gaze, “He is my scotoma, Sherlock, you understand? He is the place I cannot see. No signals in, no signals out. He either has something very, very sophisticated in Appledore, or nothing at all.”

“Does he have something on Mycroft?”

“No signals in. No signals out…”

Sherlock cut in sharply, “I’ll accept a guess.”

“I don’t deal in guesses.”

“Oh, go on, have a punt.”

Head cocked sharply to one side, Sherrinford considered for a moment, then said, “No.”

“No?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Sure?”

A glare in return.

“Someone put John in a bonfire.” Sherlock leaned forwards from his chair, bridging the space between them. “Someone is blackmailing an old friend of his.”

Sherrinford’s gaze flickered over the cuts still visible on John’s face and he appeared to think. Eventually, he said, “Mycroft is very careful. You know he is-- Magnussen won’t get anything on him directly. The others he will continue to collect.” 

There was a clue there. There always was. Sherlock’s voice was soft, careful, as he asked, “And indirectly?”

Sherrinford just smiled, but it was mirthless. “Deduce what you can.” He only gave Sherlock a few seconds before snorting. “Oh, don’t tell me I need to spell it out for you.”

“You don’t need to”

“Maybe I want to anyway: Mycroft's pressure point is his junkie detective brother Sherlock. Sherlock's pressure point is his best friend John Watson. I don’t know what John Watson's pressure point is…” Sherrinford shifted his gaze to John as he finished. “But if I own John Watson's pressure point, I own Mycroft.” 

Sherlock stood up so abruptly his chair squeaked against the polished concrete floor. He took a step back and almost looked to catch his breath before he said, “Thank you, Sherrinford. Elucidating as always.”

Sherrinford didn’t stand, and there was an air of satisfaction as he watched his brother. 

As Sherlock wound his scarf back around his neck there was a jerkiness in his movement that indicated he’d been rattled. The whole meeting had taken less than 15 minutes.

Sherlock explained in a rapid, almost frantic, tone as soon as the car door slammed behind John and the engine roared to life. “You know Magnussen as a newspaper owner, but he is so much more than that. He uses his power and wealth to gain information. The more he acquires, the greater his wealth and power, and I'm not exaggerating when I say that he knows the critical pressure point on every person of note or influence in the whole of the Western world and probably beyond.” Twisting his long frame sideways in the seat to better see John’s face he said, “He is the Napoleon of blackmail and he's created an unassailable architecture of forbidden knowledge. Its name is Appledore.” Sherlock reached out and twined his fingers with John’s on the seat. “The Western world is run from that house.”

“You’re serious?”

Sherlock’s hand gripped more tightly as he fought to impress the importance of the information on John. “It is the greatest repository of sensitive and dangerous information anywhere in the world, the Alexandrian library of secrets and scandals, and, you heard Sherrinford, none of it seems to be on a computer. He's smart. Computers can be hacked. It must all be on hard copy in vaults underneath that house; and as long as it is the personal freedom of anyone you've ever met is a fantasy.”

“Jesus, Sherlock.”

“Precisely.” 

“I don’t understand.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “I’m sorry to have exposed our constitutional monarchy as contr-”

“Not that.” John twisted his hand around and gave Sherlock’s fingers a squeeze. “I would have thought my pressure point was obviously you.” A flush of pleasure shot through Sherlock’s cheeks in response and John smiled in return.

Sherlock dropped John’s gaze, ducking his head as he said, “I once told Irene Adler that sentiment was a chemical defect found on the losing side.”

Something clenched uncomfortably in John’s chest, but he forced himself to keep his voice even as he asked, “Still believe that?”

“Of course not… but it does provide a certain level of complication.” Sherlock looked out the window as they merged onto the M4, thinking. Eventually, he turned his gaze back to John, “If Mycroft is one of just a few people not at risk from Magnussen it would explain the impasse.” 

“He can’t act on Magnussen by himself?”

Sherlock nodded. “Just a little bigger and certainly more public than Mycroft would take on alone. He takes care of things behind the scenes. The others are probably worried about failsafes and other nonsense as well.” He looked back out the window, lost in thought until he suddenly surfaced with the name, “Lady Smallwood.”

“The MP?”

“She chairs a small…” Sherlock floundered for the appropriate term and waved a hand vaguely in the air, “committee... can make things happen or be hushed up. She particularly hates bullies. Remember the parliamentary committee that hauled Magnussen in a few months ago? Nothing came of it: so he must have found something on her.”

“What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking,” there was a calculated smile on Sherlock’s face that reminded John of both his brothers, “that if I can get her to tell me what he has on her, and promise to get rid of it, she will help make him disappear.”


	4. Clare de la Lune

The front room was dim-- most of the light came from the fireplace where an effort was being made to counter the mid-November chill. Sherlock had arrived home from meeting with Lady Smallwood half an hour before, but immediately disappeared to change into his pyjama bottoms and dressing gown. He’d rejoined John in the front room, but had yet to offer any insight.

“So.” John drummed his fingers on the arm on his chair. “How was she?”

There was a twang as Sherlock plucked reflectively at the strings of his violin where he held it cradled in his arms. “A worthy ally.” Another twang. “She heard me out. She hates him, just like I thought, and he does have leverage, but it’s not even on her directly.”

“Oh?”

Sherlock smiled wryly, “Her husband. An indiscretion with a fifteen year old, broke it off as soon as he found out her age, but you know that the press would do. Probably half shrewd politics to go along with Magnussen, and half… sentiment.” He fiddled with the tension on one of the strings, then continued, “Somehow, Magnussen has a letter or two. Just enough to be rather scandalous.”

“So what’s the next move?”

“I know the groundskeeper at Appledore - got him off some fraud charges years ago, but kept it very hushed. Magnussen won’t know. There’s always a way in, John.”

“You want to break into his futuristic home?” John couldn’t believe his ears. “And you seriously believe you can waltz right in and find where he keeps his secret blackmail materials?”

“No.”

“Good, I’d tend to agree.”

“I need to meet him first.” At John’s incredulous expression he elaborated, “I need a bit more to go on. I need to see how he operates. How he thinks.”

“What are you going to do? Invite him to the flat for tea and Mrs. Hudson’s biscuits?

“An excellent idea, John, but I’m sure he would be more comfortable in his office.”

“You’re serious.”

Sherlock quirked one side of his lip up in a half smile. “I’m always serious.”

*****

Five days later and the stale tang of urine still emanated from the fireplace. John grimaced and took a sip of his scotch to try to kill the smell. 

Sherlock sat in the chair across from him, studiously not looking at John.

Finally, as the smell became too hard to ignore, John set down his glass and said, “So, how would you say that went?”

Dragging his gaze over to meet John, Sherlock finally admitted, “I can’t say I expected the visit, but it saved us a trip to his office.”

John raised an eyebrow and took another sip of his scotch. “That may be, but you still have to clean the fireplace. I’ve told Mrs. Hudson not to go near it.”

Sherlock grimaced and reached for the bottle of scotch, pouring himself a small measure and taking a quick mouthful. He held up his glass for a moment, regarding the amber liquid then quickly put it down the on the table. “Stop that.” He gestured to the glass in John’s hand. “We need to be ready to go in two hours.”

“Go?”

“To Appledore.” Sherlock stood up, stretched and started to work himself into the state of agitated excitement that preceded an act of investigative burglary. “It’s all set with the groundskeeper: one of the motion sensors was disabled this afternoon as he was working. There’s a back door that’s unlikely to be locked until around midnight-- Magnussen prefers to smoke outside.”

John scrubbed a hand over his face, weary already in the face of his partner’s excitement. “I suppose I can’t talk you out of this?”

Sherlock ignored the question completely as he headed towards the bedroom, then paused and turned. “Wear black.” Then with a wink he whirled around and continued his preparations.

*****

The security perimeter was broken just where the groundskeeper had suggested, the back door to the terrace unlocked and the house silent. Sherlock was in his element, John felt distinctly less suited to burglary. 

There was a light on deep in the house, down the hallway and around a bend. Small: a lamp rather than the overhead lights. Leaving John in the first room to search, some sort of office, Sherlock made his way down the hallway until he was following both the light and a soft voice.

He stepped into the room to find a figure in black holding a gun to Magnussen. The blackmailer was on his knees, blathering softly in Danish. The person holding the gun was small, from behind the hips were unmistakably feminine and there was the faintest scent of _Clare de la Lune_. Boldly, Sherlock said, “If you’re going to commit murder, you might consider changing your perfume, Lady Smallwood.”

Magnussen’s gaze flitted from the gun trained on him to Sherlock and, confused, asked in English, “Sorry. Who?” Sherlock felt deductions slipping just out of his grasp and wished he’d brought John’s gun with him. Magnussen looked between Sherlock and his assailant and said, haltingly, “That’s not Lady Smallwood, Mr. Holmes.”

The assailant kept their back to Sherlock, so he took a step further into the room and tried another track, “Whatever he’s got on you, put down the gun and let me help. I promise I can help.” No one moved so he took a further step and continued. “We’ll make him give whatever he has on you, and we’ll destroy it.”

“Unfortunately, Mr. Holmes, there’s only one thing to destroy.” And with that she shot Magnussen in the head. Sherlock jumped slightly, involuntarily, then froze as the woman turned around and directed her gun on him. She smiled, coldly. “Now, what to do with you?” Posh accent. English. London… and yet, something was off about it. 

There was a soft noise from down the hall: John. Sherlock’s eyes flickered to the door, tellingly. He realised his mistake the same moment he felt a bullet tear into his chest. Oh. The pain blossomed immediately after that, shocking in its intensity. John, he thought as he fell backwards, please don’t let her find John.

From his peripheral vision he saw her leave in the other direction and let out a breath that gurgled. 

Then John was there. Swearing, panicked, fumbling with his phone and not even bothering to check on Magnussen. A 999 call, then a second call. Brief, from the contacts list. Mycroft?

Finally, John’s attention was back on Sherlock, phone discarded on the floor as he cradled a hand over the top of Sherlock’s head and pressed down on Sherlock’s chest with the other. “Shhh. Shhh, hang on Sherlock. Stay with me, do you hear? Just stay with me. Oh God.”

Bad. It was bad then. His chest hurt. Everything hurt. But he had to tell John. He had to tell him. Sherlock shifted and said, “John.” Copper. He could taste copper.

“Shhh. Sherlock. It’ll be okay.”

“Mis-misjudged.” God it hurt to speak. “Not Smallwood. Clare de la Lune, John.”

As his eyes closed he thought he heard John say he loved him.

*****

The tap, tap, tap of Mycroft’s umbrella approaching and then stopping in front of his chair finally made John raise his head. 

Mycroft looked haggard, but John knew he looked worse. In response to the unasked question he said, “Sherlock said he misjudged. Then said something in French, ‘Clare de Lune’ maybe.”

Mycroft answered as he slumped down into the chair next to John, “Clare de la Lune? Lady Smallwood’s preferred perfume. A bit young for her, perhaps, but it is a classic.”

“I think he also said, ‘not Smallwood,’ but I didn’t understand what he was trying to tell me.” They sat together for a while, the bustle of the hospital passing them by. “He died on the table, Mycroft. I know one of the nurses. They pronounced him and everything, but somehow he just clawed his way back.” John’s voice was pinched and small, as if he might cry.

“My brother is nothing if not tenacious, John.” But there was a waver in that statement that Mycroft couldn’t quite keep out of his voice.

It was only later that John realised he knew the name. He’d bought it just last Christmas. Clare de la Lune was also Mary’s perfume. Something cold settled deep in his belly even as he tried to dismiss the possibility. Sherrinford's words echoed in his ears, _"If I own John Watson's pressure point, I own Mycroft.”_

*****

John jabbed his thumb into the button that controlled Sherlock’s morphine flow. When the detective’s eyes opened and tracked to his face with more clarity than before, John said, “Who shot you, Sherlock? Did you see their face?”

A mumbled, “John.”

Every instinct John had was to grasp Sherlock’s hand and not let go. To plant a relieved kiss on his forehead and run a hand through his hair. Instead, he held himself back, turned down the morphine one more step and asked again, “Who shot you?”

Sherlock made a little noise that was half a whine of frustration and half a whimper of pain. “Clare de la Lune.”

“What about it?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know her. Thought it was Lady Smallwood from Clare de la Lune.” Sherlock was shivering with the effort of speaking. "I was wrong. Don’t know who it was.”

“But it was a woman, Sherlock, yes?”

A gasp with a hitch of pain, “Yes.”

“What did she look like?”

“Round… eyes.” Sherlock took another gasping breath and his eyes threatened to roll back, “About 5 foot 3… blonde, likely dyed. Her accent...”

That horrible thing deep in John’s belly began to clamour for attention. He fumbled for his phone, pulled it out and went into the pictures until he found one of Mary. “Sherlock, is this her?” He held it out in front of the detective, but Sherlock was already unconscious.

John sat down heavily in the bedside chair, then remembered himself and scrambled to dial the morphine drip back to an appropriate level.

Mycroft. He should tell Mycroft. Maybe Mycroft already suspected as well. Maybe he’d continued to look into Mary, even after John said he didn’t want to know more. And if it hadn’t been Mary, then who? Would she come back to finish Sherlock off? If he’d just followed Sherlock more closely, maybe he could have stopped it.

He reached out, clumsily, and took Sherlock’s hand. The other man didn’t stir. 

Ten minutes later, while he was still trying to decide on a course of action, his phone buzzed. Fishing it out of his pocket revealed a text alert from an unknown number. The message was short: _Tsk tsk Dr. Watson. I’d say Mycroft rather let the side down on this one_. John frowned in confusion, then his phone buzzed again with another message, _But that’s not the first time._ There was a brief pause before it buzzed a third time: _SH_.

John couldn’t help but cast a surprised glance towards the bed, but Sherlock was still unconscious. _Sherrinford Holmes_. It could only be his brother. Another SH. At this rate he’d need to make Sherlock adopt the full WSSH before he trusted another text.

His thumb hovered over the keypad for a second before he tapped out a reply, _Do you know who shot him?_

_Of course I do._

_Prove it._

_If my brother had known about her, do you think he’d have seen it coming?_

John’s thumb trembled as he repeated, _Prove it._

_She’s still going by Morstan. Unlike our dear departed blackmailer, she didn’t put together the pieces of the puzzle enough to know Sherlock’s connections. An unusual lapse, but perhaps her judgement was a bit clouded at the time?_

_That’s not proof of anything, Sherrinford._

_She hired the car online and took her mobile_. When John didn't reply for a minute his phone buzzed again, _Would you like to tell Mycroft so he can pick her up? I would be delighted to inform him._

John felt ill. Feverish, with a twisting in his belly that he hadn't felt in a long time. Not since he used to wake at night to what he thought were his last words to Sherlock echoing in his ears, _"You machine!"_ He dropped his mobile back into his coat pocket, then leaned down until his forehead was pressed into the hospital issue sheets by Sherlock's knee.

There was a clicking of dress shoes approaching down the corridor, but John didn't move. Not even when they entered the room and stopped next to his chair. Voice muffled by the bedding, John said, "It was Mary." The figure next to him gave a sharp intake of breath. John forced himself to sit up and meet Mycroft's eyes. "It was Mary, and we missed it."

Mycroft was already reaching for his phone, a bunch of poppies forgotten in his other hand. "How do you..."

"Sherrinford." John gave a bitter smile, "I think he knew more about her all along. She was my pressure point, and I didn't even know it."

The poppies were dropped unceremoniously onto the foot of the bed as Mycroft texted furiously for several minutes. Eventually, his phone buzzed with that appeared to be a satisfying, and final, reply. The tension seemed to flow from his frame and he fairly collapsed into the chair next to John's, struggling out of his coat and scrubbing a hand over his face before he said, "It's done. Anthea has her whereabouts and she'll be picked up shortly for a more thorough examination of her file and likely a deportation to America."

"America?"

Mycroft closed his eyes and let his head tip backwards. "A guess, but I think that's where she came from, originally, and likely has a criminal record to answer for as well. I expect she'll be incarcerated for a long time."

They sat in silence for a long time, exhausted and each wrapped up in his own thoughts. A soft, grating voice eventually said, "Flowers, Mycroft? This isn't my funeral." Sherlock squinted at them through a drugged haze, cleared his throat with a wince of pain and continued, "You look like a pair of guilty schoolboys. I take it you know who shot me, or you wouldn't be waiting around?"

John and Mycroft exchanged a glance, and a silent decision between them, before John slid his chair closer to the head of the bed and said, "It was Mary."

"Mary." Sherlock murmured, eyes slipping to half mast, "Shouldn't have tried to describe her. Should have just said she looked like your type." A drugged chuckle caught in his throat.

John studiously avoided Mycroft's questioning gaze and said, "Mycroft's people have picked her up. Sherrinford... Sherrinford knew she was a threat."

"Hmmmm, of course he did." Sherlock's eyes slid shut again, but he slid a hand towards John until the other man picked it up. "Thank you, though, excellent interrogation. Couldn't have done it better myself."

John's cheeks pinked and he gave Mycroft an apologetic shrug.

Having given John a sharp look, Mycroft schooled his features, evidently willing to let whatever had taken place pass. Standing and pulled on his coat, he said, "I believe I have an interrogation of my own to oversee. I am... gratified... to see you looking better Sherlock."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Couldn't force you to host a wake this time. You'd have to say nice things and eat sandwiches. Be civil to emotional people."

Mycroft reached down with a gloved hand and gently tapped his brother's blanket covered foot. "Take care, brother mine."

Sherlock gave John's hand a squeeze and favoured his brother with a real smile. "Always."


End file.
